


Snow and Other Falls

by hawkass (eversingingleaves)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Schmoop, life- threatening circumstances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eversingingleaves/pseuds/hawkass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon prompt: Phlint - an op goes wrong and Phil and Clint are stranded in an abandoned shack in the middle of Bum-fuck nowhere. It's cold and all they have is a couple of blankets, eachother and some scotch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow and Other Falls

“Fuckin hate North Dakota. Why the fuck are we here again?” Clint whines into the comms, but it’s clear from the quaver in his voice that he’s freezing his ass off in the perch. It won’t stop him from firing when the time comes, of course, but he’s not happy and Clint will make sure everyone knows it.

“Radio silence, Agent,” comes the tired refrain, but even Coulson knows it’s nearly impossible and not entirely necessary; their frequencies are encrypted and Barton’s complaints contain no information a smart opponent couldn’t readily gather.

He’d just opened his mouth to retort when the entire world goes to shit. The wind kicks up, rapidly dropping the temperature well below what Clint’s suit is rated for and the fuzzy inconsistent static of the radio in his ear is not comforting, not one bit. 

“Sir? Report. Status, now- Sir?” he gasps, as icy shards of sleet pummel him. Visibility is nil, and the only thing he hears over the wind is the aching creak of the pine tree; it begins to tilt, turning his world into a metronome. If he doesn’t get down, there’s a good chance the trunk will snap- and so will Clint. On the other hand, he’s nearly a hundred feet into the air, well into the thick canopy of evergreen, well past any hope of landing softly.

“Post has been compromised, if anyone is fucking listening. Post is fucking compromised, repeat, coming down before the tree-” The crack resounds even over the storm, and the archer is frozen for one heart-shatteringly long moment. Trajectories and angles race through his head but his fingers won’t unclench from the rifle, and the rifle is strapped into the branch and the ground is racing-

He breathes out, and that is all it takes to break the spell of panic.

A calm hand finds the straps efficiently while the other reaches for a branch rushing by; in a second his situation goes from dire to survivable, even as he hangs one-handed fifty feet above the forest floor. Grin tugging at his lips, Clint throws his head back in the middle of the storm to stare straight into the face of adversity once more; his laughter is frantic and bold over the communications but he’s not aware of it- there’s no one to listen to him, to witness this one survival in a history of surviving against incredible odds.

Similarly, there’s no one- not even Clint- who’s listening for the sudden rush of snowfall being dislodged by the man’s weight. He doesn’t even see it coming; it knocks the breath right out of him and the grip from his fingers- the archer gasps a mouthful of snow as he falls, landing in an unconscious, crumpled mass at the roots of the tree.

—————

“Radio silence, Agent,” Phil repeats for what seems like the fortieth time in the past seven minutes alone; he knows his agent is cold- they’re all cold and miserable but goddamn, Clint’s complaining isn’t making anything easier on any of them. Granted, at least the ground team has the benefit of a makeshift yurt to keep them out of the snow for now.

“Sir- Sir, I’ve got bad weather incoming, and fast. Gonna knock us all out- this shelter’s not rated for the frozen hell that’s comin’, sir. Beg your pardon, sir,” Jackson pants, still knocking snow from his shoes. The weather radar’s clutched in his frozen hands and Coulson gives the thing a scathing look.

“There’s a bed and breakfast not a half mile down the road- owner’s name is Maryellen.” He raised an eyebrow as Jackson opened his mouth, and that was all the reproach necessary. One good thing to be said about SHIELD- they sure knew how to pack it out fast. Once Coulson was sure the men were well on their way to safety, he dismissed all thoughts of anything but his missing archer.

“Barton. Barton, come in. Barton, do you read me?” Clearly he did not; Phil tracked his last known location on the weather radar’s display, now nearly red with danger.


End file.
